The Timeless Library

40. Historical Fiction

The Librarian's fingers ache and are covered in ink smudges, but she does not mind: her tears are dry, and her heart is whole.

She poured everything she had into those stories and felt every last emotion with just as much intensity. The joys of childhood. The warmth of family. The strength of shared memories. Is that what it is like to have parents? Siblings? Friends? A doctor, ready to listen to your complaints? Someone on the other side of the phone? The Librarian marvels at the fact that on this strange day she can feel for herself the impact of every single one of these bonds.

What a strange day, indeed... but so much excitement has left her completely drained, and she is unaccustomed to the exhaustion.

On her normal days, she can write for hours on end. It is peaceful, mechanical, stable. The items she holds tell her what she must write, and she dutifully transcribes it to words, no questions asked. Boxes are emptied, pages are written, and shelves are filled at a steady rhythm, like clockwork. The days blend into one another, always starting, ending, and continuing in the same, predictable way.

This time, however, she is going to need a break, and lunch is as good of an excuse as any. Hopefully a change of pace in a day full of changes is what she needs in order to overcome the new hurdles brought about by the invigorating, debilitating power of feeling.

The Librarian stands from her desk, stretches, and swiftly exits her office. As she is walking to the kitchen, however, she becomes keenly aware of the soft whirring sound behind her: the robot vacuum is following her again.

"There's no work for you in the kitchen," she tells it. "I'm taking a break, so you're just wasting your energy right now. In fact, it's probably for the best to put you on standby until work resumes..."

She bends over, her finger hovering over the robot's OFF button.

"LET'S GET TO WORK :)," it pleads, going so far as to let out a drawn-out, confused beep, and she hesitates.

'Attachment,' she recalls from her latest written piece. 'It is a deep, enduring emotional bond that we form over time with the things we interact with.'

She sighs, and pulls her hand away. "Do as you please," she concedes, and bites back a smile when the little robot wiggles in reply.

The Librarian doesn't have a dining table: usually her meals are rather on-the-go, consumed absentmindedly at her office while working. And so, on this strange day she finds that she must improvise. With a small picnic basket in one arm and a robot vacuum in the other, she decides to head outside.

There is a small courtyard in the center of the Library trapped in an eternal spring. Sun always filters through the trees; the camellias are always in bloom. Vines crawl along the walls and birds perch on top, some chirping and others quietly preening while they wait for their turn to forage in the soft grass below. This is where the Librarian rests, sitting cross-legged with her skirts spread out, and truly savors her meal for the first time. She has a single hard-boiled egg accompanied by her second cup of coffee, same as always, but today her food has her full attention, and so the familiar flavors seem to come alive on her tongue.

Moments go by in silence. She is not certain how long it takes, nor does it really matter; she simply rests and waits, hand gently stroking the robot on her lap. Eventually, long after she has polished off her meal and after some time watching the leaves rustling in the breeze, she decides she is ready to give writing another go.

"Say, how about we check Historical Fiction next?"

"LET'S GET TO-"

"Yes, yes. Cleanup first, naturally."

Fueled by a full belly and a full heart, the Librarian once again takes no time at all to complete her routine. Binding, shelving, admiring, nodding; she dances from one task to the next, caught up in her waltz with herself. The Slice of Life shelf is rather plain, she notes, but there's something comforting about the raw, unvarnished wood, so versatile and so welcoming. All the more so today.

There is a spring in her step as she makes her way to Historical Fiction, robot vacuum in tow. This genre in particular has ever been a source of inspiration for her. Its stories, though not nearly as expansive as the Library itself, still carry a similar weight of age and history. The characters, old-fashioned and poised, all seem to have an air of refinement about them. She loves to emulate their elegance in her actions; it helps her feel at home in this timeless place.

The box awaits. It is another small one, much like Romance, but the Librarian will take what she can get. Inside she finds an ominous beak-shaped mask, but also-and more surprisingly-a sequel to lunch in the form of a cup of coffee and a single hard-boiled egg.

Talk about coincidence; then again, strange coincidences are to be expected on strange days.